The Ties That Bind
by Kristen999
Summary: Ronon asks Sheppard to join him on a dangerous search unaware that some answers are gained in the journey. DramaActionHC. Spoilers for Reunion
1. Chapter 1

Title: "The Ties that Bind" (1/6) Gen  
Author: Kristen999  
Character(s): Ronon and Sheppard Friendship  
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Some drama, action and h/c.  
Rating: T  
Words: 21,000 total –5300 this section  
Spoilers: Season 4 "Reunion"

Summary: Ronon asks Sheppard to join him on a dangerous search unaware that some answers are gained in the journey.

Notes: This is all from Ronon's POV, but a study of their interesting friendship. There were a few things from "Reunion" that I thought needed further exploration. For some reason this was a tough nut to crack, but I enjoyed doing so.

This is complete, updates will be every other day as I tweak things.

Thanks to Beth for her invaluable beta service, poking and prodding me until this was my best effort. Also to Mandy for her wonderful encouragement and fast as lightening suggestions.

* * *

Ronon stands outside on one of the piers. He's never felt the same need as the others to simply stare out into the ocean, but decides it might help clear his head. The waves slapping the side of the city are darker and the sky is filled with star patterns that he doesn't recognize. He pauses while memories drift along with the rushing waters. He shouldn't dwell upon the past, but recently he has felt overtaken by history. 

He scowls at such internal conflict. Duty is duty and old oaths are just as important as new ones. Principles have to be upheld no matter how much time has gone by. He rubs the ink pattern on his forearm; the tattoo is a reminder of conflicted loyalty and awful treachery. The devotion towards his people still burns deeply despite what happened days ago.

His allegiances have pulled him in so many directions, casting doubts about his decisions. This time, he is positive about what needs to be done. Seven years on the run has taught him about self dependence; however, the last three have shown him a new way.

* * *

The door opens and Ronon walks inside to the sounds of music. Sheppard sits cross-legged on his bed in BDUs and bare feet, plucking at the strings of an instrument. His friend strums the ending notes of a song before resting it over his lap. 

"What's up?"

Ronon shifts uncomfortably; it's been a long time since his CO has appeared relaxed and he feels guilty for interrupting. "I… um..."

Sheppard looks at him intensely, his voice tinged with his usual dry sarcasm. "We have another disaster?"

"No." Ronon thinks a beat, walks closer and inspects the instrument. "Didn't know you played anything."

Sheppard studies him, obviously recognizing the stall tactic and lifts up the instrument. "Yeah, sometimes. I'm not very good."

"I used to play a _supeka. _It was longer and had more strings, but you held it up."

"Like a violin?"

"Don't know what that is, but upright you could pull and press on the strings at the same time for different sounds."

"Interesting. Might try it like that after I get the technique down on the Earth version," Sheppard chuckles.

"Can I try?"

"Sure."

It's lighter than it looks. Ronon holds it the way Sheppard instructs him with the left hand around the long thinner part and the right gripping a plastic plucker.

"We call it a guitar."

The instrumentfeels nice; the vibrating strings produce subtle changes in tone and harmony. It doesn't take long to acclimate to the combination of techniques, pressing on the neck while agitating the strings with the pick.

"You're a quick study," the colonel remarks.

Ronon shrugs his shoulder. "I'm used to more note changes."

He stalls, fingers dancing over the taut strings before handing it back over. "Thanks."

"Any time you want to borrow it." Sheppard rests the instrument on the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets. "What's on your mind?"

Ronon doesn't filter his words ever; it's always better to get to the point. Talking with Sheppard has always been an easy thing, but for some reason he stops to think about what he's going to say. The colonel gives him a quirked eyebrow, followed by an encouraging smile.

"I need your help."

"Okay… With what?"

Ronon sucks in a breath; this is harder than he thought. He watches Sheppard regard him with a mixture of apprehension and desire to try to fix whatever is bothering him. He realizes that the unease is his fault; he put it there and it makes the request all the more difficult.

"I want to go on a mission. A private one."

Sheppard's eyebrows rise, his jaw muscles tense. "For what reason?"

"Justice."

The colonel exhales slowly. "Is this about your friends?"

"Yes...no...it's about someone else."

Ronon can see the walls begin to build, the pilot's eyes flicking towards the ground when he's faced with a subject he wishes to avoid.

"Look, Big Guy, I know you just had a tough time recently---"

"It's not like that," Ronon interrupts. "I'm not looking for more of my people, or trying to leave Atlantis."

Sheppard's shoulders relax a little as some of the tension bleeds away. "Go on."

"Rakai told me about a person that's still alive." His voice hardens upon reciting the next man's name. "Turesh, an enemy of my people... a butcher."

Sheppard's mouth twitches, his expression impassive as he mulls the information. "This guy was Satedan?"

"No! He was from a neighboring planet, Terinia. He belonged to a bunch of thieves that raided remote settlements outside the city or weakened sectors after Wraith attacks."

"He their leader?"

"Turesh wasn't a leader...he was just the largest _dreck_ among a group of bandits ---A murderer." Ronon paces, balling his fists by his sides. "He was responsible for many massacres."

"And Rakai told you he was alive?" Sheppard inquires with a hint of sarcasm about the Wraith worshiper.

"Yes!"

There's doubt in the colonel's face but he urges him to go on. "One of the ops we discussed was to go after him, have him pay for his crimes. I know what went down at the Wraith lab was a setup, but I know that his intel on Turesh was right... I could see it in Rakai's eyes... he was telling the truth."

"Even so... if this Turesh is even alive... what then? Just go and kill him? It's not like we have a galactic prison for criminals."

The colonel has killed many enemies- it's his job, but for Sheppard there are rules. Some things end on the battlefield but Ronon knows that there are circumstances out there that warrant other measures.

"He deserves to die."

"Last I checked, none of us were judge, jury and executioner."

"If you had a chance to find a person responsible for the slaughter of others, wouldn't you do the same?" Ronon sees a hint of the real answer spread over the pilot's face before the more rational and responsible part clamps down. "If someone came and killed some of the people on Atlantis and you watched friends die. I know you wouldn't hesitate."

Sheppard looks torn.

"I'm not asking your permission to go."

The colonel straightens, eyes narrowing. Sheppard could order him to stand down; he's a member of the man's team and under his orders.

Sheppard's voice takes on a harsh, dry quality. "What _are _you asking me?"

Ronon looks him right in the eye. "I want you to come with me."

* * *

"You're both nuts and need to have your heads examined!" Rodney says scornfully. 

Sheppard has his arms crossed, leaning in the door jamb.

The annoyed astrophysicist doesn't stop to see if anyone is listening. "The place sounds like the wild, wild west. Full of scum and less than desirable people. We should be scouting out friendly planets, friendly natives, not paying a visit to some saloon town so you two can play cowboys!"

"You're not going, McKay," the colonel explains.

"I mean it's a stupid, stupid...what? Wait, what do you mean I'm not---"

"There's no technology to find, no outpost to inspect."

"Oh, then why are you going?"

"It's always good to get to know all the seedier joints around...see if there are places to drop by in a pinch."

"And Sam okayed the waste of resources and man power for your little adventure?"

"That's _Colonel _Carter and she still needs to give final permission."

Ronon doesn't like having to wait on their new leader; she doesn't know him. Sheppard still oversees most of the military side of things and they're still repairing the city so it's not easy for him to leave his obligations. Sheppard's willingness to do this and to test the waters with his new commanding officer speaks volumes.

"John," Teyla says as she joins them. "Colonel Carter is looking for you."

Sheppard leaves without a word and Teyla stares at Rodney for a moment before he gets the hint. "I've got stuff to do; I'll let Butch and the Sundance Kid go stir up trouble."

Teyla waits for Rodney to leave then turns to Ronon with a casual smile. "How long will you two be gone?"

Ronon's good at reading her, at seeing the stuff not spoken. "A few days; it's a big area."

She doesn't question why he hasn't invited her along; it's not about trust, never with her.

"You will call if you need to?"

"We'll be fine."

"Do you think you'll find what you're searching for?"

"I'm not sure, but I have to try."

"And you've told the colonel everything about this mission?"

He deserves that; he deceived her the last time he had a desire for revenge. "He knows... it's one of the reasons why I asked him to come with me."

Teyla nods and her eyes sparkle with that all knowing look.

"I never thought I'd spend so much time looking backwards."

Her hands are warm on his arm. "Clearing up the past leaves us free to face the future."

Ronon hopes her words are true; he still feels divided and torn in opposite directions. He owes his old friends justice. Maybe, after everything that's happened during the past few months, tracking a man responsible for so many deaths will make him feel like he's made a difference.

Unlike the Wraith or the Replicators, this is one enemy that can be caught.

And punished.

* * *

There are two gates on the planet. They take the orbital one on the outskirts and park the jumper several clicks away. The other ring is located in the center of town and neither of them want to announce their arrival in such a way. Walking on foot from the edge of the settlement is the best approach. 

MXP-369 is a barren world, a wasteland of blacks, grays and heavy plumes of smoke. The air is heavy with soot, dusting both their jackets with a fine coating of particles. The hills surrounding them stretch on forever, the choking acidic pollution billowing out of excavation shafts. Ronon looks up at the smog in the sky; the sun is nothing but a fuzzy spot over the horizon.

Sheppard lets out a dry cough, covering his mouth and muffling the hacking. Ronon's chest itches in sympathy.

The colonel walks a few paces ahead of him with his P-90 at the ready and swinging the barrel at any odd noise. "This reminds me of coal country."

Ronon gives him one of the looks he uses whenever the man makes an Earth reference.

"Just a place with a lot of mines."

"If this area is an energy source, it's a magnet for the Wraith."

"Maybe... Mines take a long time to produce anything useful. Still need some technology to do anything with it. It'd might explain why this place has become such a hot spot for trade."

"Not the type we're used to. This place is rough... all black market. Weapons, thugs, sex, whatever you want... you find it here," Ronon explains.

"Peachy."

"We'll need to stay on our toes and whatever happens... don't hold back." Ronon gives his CO a sidelong look. They have to act the part to get close to Turesh. There's no time for charm and smiles or anything resembling politeness.

"Good thing I brought my leather jacket. Makes me look tough."

Behind the usual humor Ronon knows Sheppard is taking this seriously since he'd strapped a second gun to his ankle and another knife to his belt before they'd left. Sheppard does look the part of an intimidating soldier, dressed all in black with sunglasses that conceal his expression.

It's all about perception. They have no back up and they'll need every advantage if the reports about the dangers of this trading post are even slightly accurate.

"So, Turesh is a thug for hire?"

Ronon clenches the blaster in his right hand tighter. "Rakai said he is involved in weapons dealing, contract work, murder, robbery; whatever will pay him the most."

"Then we'll need to be the right scumbag employers."

Two large towers loom closer as they enter the outskirts of the area. There are a few other people entering and leaving, but everyone avoids eye contact. The stone boulders that make up the brick walls surrounding the entrance are covered with grime from years of raining ash.

The guards glare at them suspiciously; the blowing wind whips their long black hair around the scarves that cover up most of their scruffy faces.

There's no confrontation unless a staring contest counts and Ronon grabs Sheppard's elbow to steer him out of the center of town. "We need to blend in."

Sheppard looks at him in exasperation. "And nothing about our weapons or our clothes doesn't scream _new to this neck of the woods_?"

What they need to do is begin poking around for information. "Let's find a bar," Ronon announces as he scans for a sign of one.

"Kind of early for shots, isn't it?"

"It's never too early."

* * *

The bald gap-toothed bartender is covered in tattoos including those all over his pudgy face. He reminds Ronon of an earth pig, grunting a "Whatdaya want?" only after he asks for a drink a third time. 

They sit there, sipping over-watered ales and observe a large crowd for the middle of the afternoon, but soon learn that the sun won't go down for another two days. No one speaks to the Lanteans; attempts at idle chit chat with the barkeep earn them smoke in the face from a putrid cigar.

"Place is pretty chilly," Sheppard remarks, swirling his drink around.

There appears to be two focus areas of action and Ronon studies the circle of people in the left hand corner hollering, cursing and cheering. He smiles to himself when he gets a peek of an arm wrestling match. The colonel finds a card game off in the other end and both men look at each other.

"You want to give me some money, Big Guy?" the colonel asks with a glint in his eyes.

Ronon shakes his head, forgetting that his CO doesn't have use for currency. "Don't lose it all."

"Gonna try to make a good impression," Sheppard answers with a crooked smile.

He watches the pilot approach the table, his muscles tensing as the rough looking group stops what they're doing. The hooligans seem annoyed at the interruption, but after Sheppard pulls out some money and drops it on the table, he's dealt in on the next hand. Ronon observes a little while longer, making sure there are no sudden movements from the motley crew. He doesn't like the fact that Sheppard had to lay his P-90 next to his leg and out of reach, but as time goes on without incident he feels marginally comfortable about leaving his CO at the game.

Ronon's adrenaline has been pumping since they entered the city and his strides have extra juice in them. The crowd near the fight shifts to allow him room as they appraise his possible might and he flexes his biceps and puffs out his chest at every look.

The horde of bodies reeks of smoke, alcohol and old sweat. It doesn't bother him; the harsh aroma of violence is one of the few things he's used to. Arm wrestling is kid's play. It doesn't involve the risk of death and he wonders where the real action is hidden away. He outweighs both participants by several pounds and decides he wants to get a better look by shoving his way to the front of the circle of onlookers.

The ringleader sports a set of sunglasses and a crown of spiky blue hair and sits off to the side on a stool. He wears a button up black shirt under a jacket of dark animal skin with buttons made of tiny bones. People approach the man and whisper in his ear but his only response is a nod or a shake of the head.

The fighter on the right is sweating bullets, his meaty hand quivering from the strength of his opponent. Ronon observes the obvious champion, a scraggly bearded oaf with two different colored eyes. The larger man toys with the challenger, allowing him to bend his thick, coiled arm a few degrees before pulling it back to the center of the table. Money changes hands over and over again as the odds increase with the possible profits.

Ronon towers over everyone and turns around to check on Sheppard, verifying that he's still playing and in one piece before bringing his attention back to the battle. The table rattles as the weaker arm is slammed down. The hulking warrior slouches and downs a glass of ale.

"Who's next?" the victor challenges.

If that's not an invitation, he doesn't know what is. Ronon checks on Sheppard one more time before sliding off his coat and taking the vacated seat. The noise level increases with excited chatter over the stranger and a minion of the ring leader wanders over, his stale breath repugnant. "You have the fee required?"

Ronon holds up the right amount, gripping it so that the minion can't pull the currency free. "What's my share?"

The taskmaster glances at his boss first. "Forty percent."

"Not good enough."

His opponent pops his knuckles, sharing a look at the ringleader before setting his sights on Ronon. "It's been a while since I've had a real challenge."

The buzz gets louder, voices murmuring between the spectators and Ronon tightens his hold on the money.

"Fifty."

"Sixty."

The crowd closes around the table, but everyone awaits the response from the ringleader. The man replies by pushing his shades over his nose.

"Done," the good little taskmaster says with a nod, grabbing the money and scampering off.

Ronon places his elbow on the wooden surface and clamps his fingers around his opponent's in a firm grip. The ringleader gives the signal and instead of screwing around, Ronon jerks with all his energy, startling his foe.

The tendons in both their arms shake and ripple, causing veins pop to the surface like rivers.

There's real fortitude in his opponent's arm, but Ronon focuses on his shoulder, the muscles there bulging into hills and valleys. Before it's begun he slams the opposing hand to the other side of the table with a _whack_.

There's a hush of silence or maybe outrage at the quick resolution and he scans the onlookers, spotting a few delighted expressions among many angry losers.

_Shock makes the strongest impact._

His opponent's chair falls back as the guy rises to his feet quickly and Ronon matches his moves. They stare at each other before the tension is broken by his challenger's admission of defeat with a short nod.

Ronon grabs his coat, slips it on slowly, and the crowd departs like ocean waves as he heads towards the minion for his winnings. The ringleader stands, pulling out a cigar and lighting it up as he counts out the money before personally handing it over to him.

"Let me know when you want to go another round."

Ronon smirks; he's gained the desired attention and decides to check out how the colonel is doing. He elbows his way next to where Sheppard plays and watches as the pilot is given another card.

The colonel silently slides it with the rest of his hand before pulling a few bills from his stack and adding them to the pile. "I'll take another."

The game looks like Earth poker except each player has seven cards and the battered pieces have simpler symbols painted on them. There are various shapes in three different colors, red, blue and black. He's not sure what each 'suit' is worth, but obviously Sheppard's picked up on the game from the amount of money that is in his pile and the pot looms even larger.

The dealer slams down another card, his fingers holding it still. "You're sure lucky, stranger... Not everyone asks for more cards after the streak you've been on."

"We all have our moments," the colonel replies, grabbing it.

"Well, I'm not buying yours," the player to his left slurs.

The roughneck next to the pilot has a big enough scraggly beard that a bird could make a nest in it. The growth of his facial hair merges with the equally mangy mop on his head and the players growls at whatever card he's received.

Not a good poker face, Ronon muses.

There are more rounds during this game than what's played on Atlantis. There's more betting and the money accumulates in the pot until the dealer taps his hand on the table.

"Alright, now show 'em."

Each player displays a single card and the group becomes more angered at Sheppard's dominant hand. The colonel reveals a three of red squiggly lines and the buddy next to him begins to shake in his seat in anger.

"You _dreck! _You've won the last three games and we had to tell ya how to play!"

Sheppard remains unaffected by the outburst, but that doesn't change the fact that things are becoming hostile. He keeps his eye on the hairy guy who shoots his mouth off some more before taking a swig of a bubbling purple drink. Sheppard doesn't say a word, letting the pissed off player cool his heels and waiting his turn to bet.

Sheppard reveals his second to last card-- a black background with a single star and instead of calming things down it fans the flames.

"You cheat!"

Ronon trains his blaster at the hairy one's forehead, but not before the guy slips a knife under the colonel's throat.

The blade rests under the carotid and for his part, Sheppard remains perfectly still. "No need to shed blood over this," he says.

"Oh, I'm gonna spill blood… gonna bleed you all over those tainted cards," the guy sneers, eyes flicking over to Ronon's. "And don't think I won't cut your pal open before you get a shot off."

"You'll be dead," Ronon promises.

"Maybe... maybe some of my friends will take you out before then," the bastard laughs.

"Or maybe I'll blow a hole in your belly and you'll die a slow, horrible death," Sheppard adds.

Both Ronon and the other player look down to see the colonel aiming his Glock under the table at the bad guy.

Sheppard cocks his head to the side in a way that betrays how sly he can be.

Ronon grins devilishly.

"Why don't we see who wins. Then you can kill each other if ya want," the dealer says, annoyed by the interruption of the game.

"Fine," the ticked off player replies, flipping his card over.

The colonel rests his left hand on his final card before displaying a set of blue dots.

"I win," the man says surprisedly, slipping his knife away from the colonel's throat.

"Lucky you," Sheppard replies dryly.

The tension thaws away as the jerk collects his winnings. Sheppard grabs his money, a stack larger than what he'd begun with. Ronon still glowers at the other player. He's itchy to slam his gun against his skull just for the threat, but the colonel drags him away as he attaches his P-90 back to his vest.

"Come on, think we've attracted exactly the kind of attention you desired," Sheppard whispers as the crowd around the bar watches their every move.

They are almost out the door when the ringleader of the arm wrestling match stands in front of them. "You guys are new to the town of Aurgulas."

"Yeah," Ronon answers.

"Got a place to stay?"

"Nope."

"You can get a room upstairs," the guy says, staring at them through his shades.

"That's nice of you, what's the charge?" Sheppard inquires.

The ring leader pops his neck, twisting it side to side. "And that's an interesting weapon you have there."

The colonel is very calm, not even gripping the P-90 any tighter out of possession.

"First night's free… Come back down later, maybe we can discuss what brings you here."

The barkeep steps up as the ringleader slips away. "Here's the key, second room on the left," he says before going back to tend to new customers.

"That was odd," Sheppard remarks.

Ronon doesn't say anything as they go around the back and up a set of stairs. Sheppard inspects the small accommodation that consists of a creaky bed, a tabletop, sink and bathroom.

"Looks like the guy that owns the joint might be the best way to look for Turesh. He seems like one of the local business men. Runs the bar, lodging, and all the gambling might be just the tip of the iceberg."

"Maybe," Ronon answers gruffly.

Sheppard pauses before sitting down on the bed. "During the game I learned that the really 'good' trade happens further in town, but you have to be invited in."

This interests Ronon. "They say how?"

"No, but I think it's based on reputation and we're going to have to come across a bit more bad assed than we are."

"I can do that." He smirks, remembering the card game. "Blowing a hole in his belly?"

"Not evil sounding enough?"

"You're getting there."

Ronon's adrenaline scours his veins and he resists the urge to go back down. It's time to let things simmer and let word spread of the new strangers. He glances back over at the pilot, a little curious about something.

"You never play during poker night, how come?"

Ronon watches as Sheppard tries to hide a guilty look, but the corner of his mouth curves upwards. "I don't like taking advantage of others."

"You that good?"

Sheppard laughs. "No...I um...can count cards."

Ronon quirks an eyebrow. "That's a lot of cards."

The colonel shrugs and Ronon doesn't try to understand how he could memorize that many items and still get lost on occasion. "So you cheated."

"No, I knew when a certain card would come up in the rotation...I kept up with patterns."

"Sounds like cheating to me."

"I did lose that last round," Sheppard says as if that makes up for everything.

"Why?"

"Because if I _did_ win every hand then people would have caught on."

Ronon can't pace, the room is too cramped and he ends up leaning on the wall. The colonel is quite capable of taking care of himself. He's a good leader and a great soldier, but if things had gone the wrong way, he'd be dead.

And it would have been his fault.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

Sheppard looks down at the floor. "I wasn't going to let you do this without backup."

Ronon stares up at the ceiling as memories pour in and instead of hording them, he decides to share. "I had one bunkmate throughout my military training. Kanesh wasn't the toughest Satedan; he used to piss me off with all his pointless ideas. He'd say there was more to life than fighting."

Sheppard doesn't break eye contact.

"He wrote poetry and stories about other worlds without the Wraith… senseless dribble. One night I caught him... _painting_."

"He wanted to illustrate all his ideas. It was dumb, a waste of time... but one day he picked up my _supeka _and dared me to explain the difference in my playing and his expression."

Clearing his throat he went on. "Kanesh showed me how art could be used the same way. That there's no difference in my playing and using things like color to paint my feelings. All the glory of our best fighters could be saved on canvas."

"Sounds like he wasn't much for the military--"

"That's where you're wrong...where _I_ was wrong," Ronon says, shaking his head. "He showed me how to use a sword the right... Taught me techniques passed down from his family...Stuff only to be shared with blood kin. He was good in the military ...he was just odd about death."

"What happened?"

"Turesh hit a supply line carrying material for our weapons...our defenses. He strung Kanesh's body up on a pole with the rest of his unit as a message.

He'd booby trap roads on patrol; some of the leftover explosives would kill civilians, children, families. As long as there was a profit, he'd violate Sateda and sell the spoils to other worlds."

The colonel rests his elbows on his knees. "When the Wraith came..."

"We thought he was killed...the surrounding planets were culled including his home world Terinia. It wasn't until I talked to Rakai that I found out he was still alive. His operations are smaller and his little army has been killed and disbanded, but he still holds power here."

"And his people never did anything about him?'"

Ronon snorts. "No, the Terinians were a bunch of cowards, always trying to provoke conflict and never doing anything to track down one of their own. It didn't matter to them about the blood of Satedans."

"I guess a common enemy didn't mend rivalries."

Ronon looks up to read his CO's next expression. "So, you understand what I have to do?"

"I told Colonel Carter you had something that you wanted to take care of and you asked for my assistance in a personal matter. I didn't lie to her when I said I wanted to come along as a friend."

"And she bought that?"

Sheppard looks uncomfortable. "Yeah, it was the truth and, you know... with everything that's happened the past few weeks..."

"If it had been Earth culled and you had continued your fight with us and discovered humans elsewhere…" Ronon pauses to allow the implication to sink in.

Sheppard's eyes burn brightly, anger lighting up his face. "I never stopped you. It was a mistake, but I knew...I knew why you did it."

"It still made you mad."

"Doesn't matter now, it's over."

Translation. The colonel didn't want to talk about it. They both hate dragging out emotions.

The disturbing thing was that he needed to know something...needed Sheppard to speak of something even more unsettling.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

Ronon doesn't feel the right, but he really has to know. "They were fed upon...my friends. Fed upon and their life returned to them. Over and over again."

"They were tortured."

"They gave in to the Wraith."

"There's more to it than just physical pain."

"They threw everything they believed in away."

The pilot gets a far away look in his eyes. "Their minds were...were..."

"They broke! Then accepted a life of servitude to the very people who destroyed our world!" Ronon growls. "Countless millions dead and they groveled at their feet!"

"It's like having your soul ripped out of you, one bit at a time!" Sheppard growls back. "You want to die! You wait for it!"

"But you didn't!"

Ronon waits for more ...holds on for some secret answer.

"I couldn't imagine having to endure that more than once." The colonel walks as far away as he can and into the bathroom. He turns on the water at the dingy sink and splashes it over his face.

Sheppard stares at his reflection in the mirror longer than is needed and slowly comes back out. He looks like he's been punched in the gut and Ronon knows he's the one to have delivered the heavy blow.

He walks towards his commanding officer and looks him right in the eyes. "_You_ didn't break ---and we'll always get you back," he declares in all conviction.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Hours later they go back down to the bar with a game plan. The place is jam packed with customers and the air is thick with the smoke of various tobaccos. Ronon tries to avoid people with glazed over eyes or red-hued corneas. There's no need to tangle with high _dreck_ with itchy trigger fingers. 

The bartender is prompt this time with two glasses of dark colored brew. The colonel sniffs at it, his eyes widening at the potent smell and cocks an eyebrow at him.

Ronon takes a swig. "This beats the piss from before," he says, emptying half of it.

Sheppard's glass remains full.

They spot the bar owner and approach him, knowing the man probably has his hands in more things than just local arm wrestling matches. He swirls one of those purple drinks in his hand; a fine mist evaporates from the bubbling fizz. Two thugs stand nearby as protection.

"I see the two of you have come back for more," the bar owner says coyly.

"It was getting boring upstairs so we thought we'd check things out," the colonel says, leaning against the bar.

"You know, if you want to make some more money, I can arrange matches for you," the ringleader suggests, eying the Satedan.

"Not interested," Ronon replies.

"Really? You could make an easy ten _frantz _in just a few hours."

Sheppard rolls his eyes and the bar owner's face becomes steely. "That's good money, but maybe you'd be interested in something else? I can get you in high stakes card games." The guy pauses. "Or perhaps wagers on _Pumpta_ racing?"

"Sorry, not our thing," the colonel responds.

"Pleasures of the flesh perhaps?"

"Our business requires someone with a _stronger _set of connections," Sheppard replies and begins to follow Ronon towards the exit.

"Wait! I didn't say you could go."

The two burly guards merge to block them from leaving. Sheppard looks over at Ronon and gestures at his guy. Ronon flicks his dreads away from his face and on a mental count of three they take them out.

Ronon sends his palm into the first guard's face, breaking his nose. Blood spurts out, dribbling down the man's chin as he follows it up with a fist to the gut. The hired muscle doubles over and wavers on his feet. Ronon sends a quick chop to the back of the thug's neck causing the guy to face plant on the floor.

He glances over his shoulder as Sheppard ducks a wild punch before clobbering the other guard in the face, stunning him. The colonel wastes no time, grabbing his foe by the collar and slamming the side of the guard's skull into the bar.

Sheppard dusts his hands off, takes a gulp of his drink and watches the goon slide to the ground.

They stroll past a few onlookers; most of the occupants are more interested in their own dealings, but this little display raises the volume of the quiet murmurings. The bar owner follows behind them.

"You won't get anywhere without me!"

Ronon and Sheppard share a look before spinning on their mark.

"I can help you. You might be able to handle yourselves, but no one's going to talk to off-worlders they don't know. And no one knows you guys... I checked."

"It would help if we had a name to go with these claims," the colonel remarks.

"It's Larsrumpza, but people call me Lars. I own this bar, run all the action in it and help people like yourselves. I'm a trader for all that you may seek."

The colonel points to himself. "I'm Sheppard and this is Ronon."

They allow Lars to fall in step with them, away from prying eyes and ears. "We've got some dirty business to deal with," Sheppard says in a lowered voice. "We could use some help."

"What kind?"

"The kind that are willing to get... _dirty_. For the right price, of course," Sheppard explains.

"Mercenaries are expensive."

"That's not a problem," Ronon answers.

"How many do you need?"

"Thirty to begin with," Sheppard says.

Lars freezes in his tracks. "That's more like a small army."

"Really?" the colonel deadpans.

Lars laughs. "You don't have the money for armies, boys. Not with who you have to deal with to get 'em."

"Looks aren't everything," Ronon growls.

"No, not at all," Sheppard steps up, stroking the P-90. "Not when you own cases of these."

"And we have of enough of those to make thirty men become three hundred," Ronon whispers in the dealer's ear.

"Show me."

Ronon was pleased phase one of the plan was coming together.

* * *

Ronon loves his blaster; it's a simple, beautiful thing. Stun or kill. Blow up a door or take down an enemy. It holds a charge for a long time the range is good and the accuracy has never been an issue. And for those unfortunate enough to fall victim to it, the energy bolt burns clean through for a quick kill. 

Projectiles are nastier; they enter the body and tear it apart from the inside. A rifle offers a lot of fire power, but a P-90 can make someone a killing machine.

Sheppard sprays the back of an abandoned brick building with his gun, peppering the entire wall in seconds and leaving hundreds of holes in his wake. It's an impressive display and Lars grins ear to ear.

"How many did you say you could get?"

Greed is easy to exploit and it only takes a little smooth talking from the colonel and Ronon's silent, deadly look to convince the crook to connect them with the right people.

Or the right person.

"We only want to deal with the best," Sheppard explains.

"There are only a few people here that could provide you with reliable men. I know this Prothesian--"

"We've heard of a Terinian that's done excellent work in the past."

Lars studies the colonel's face. "Yes, of course... _him_. His reputation is indeed known by many."

"Is he here?" Ronon asks.

"He does business out of the back room at the Veramont. May I suggest this other--"

"No, we want the Terinian," Ronon snaps.

"If that's what you want. I expect payment after the introduction. If you two end up dead, it won't ruin my day."

They begin their trek towards the inner part of the town, the sun hidden by the brown haze in the sky. The wind stirs up fumes and fine grains that cause Ronon's eyes to burn and water. Sheppard keeps his head down to avoid breathing in the irritants, but they still inhale the backwash of burning fuel.

The colonel coughs and gags and the noise is like a blaring sensor alarm, attracting odd looks. The street merchants push their carts of wares up and down and Ronon stops by one of them for a solution. After a little bartering he returns with two pieces of fabric, handing a dark blue strip to Sheppard.

They wrap the cloth around their noses and mouths. He thinks the colonel looks like one of those bank robbers he's seen in Earth movies. The sunglasses and bandanna obscure the pilot's face and all they need are those cowboy hats.

It seems appropriate, posing as weapons dealers, looking like bad guys. Villains hunting a villain.

The inhabitants of this world whisper in shadows and short alleyways. People hide behind scarves and brims of hats, keeping their heads lowered if they pass too close. They spot a merchant counting his heavy bags of goods while the seller waits for the inventory to be finished. The seller holds a gloved hand open for money but he's paid with a flick of a hidden blade. The merchant slits the seller's throat, blood spraying the dusty ground.

Sheppard freezes out of instinct, the sunlight reflecting off of his shades as he stares. The killer meets the pilot's gaze, wiping a wet, crimson-stained hand on his pants while stepping over the body.

Ronon grabs the colonel's elbow to pull him along; _this happens here all the time,_ he communicates in silence. There's nothing to be done.

The wall that keeps the others out of the more underground sector isn't a physical one. There are members of the planet's militia standing around with gangs of other unsavory characters. People huddle for warmth around fires burning in metal barrels; despite the days of non-stop sun, it's still very cold outside.

Lars holds out a hand in greeting as a patrol of armed men approach. "Just going in for a few hours."

One guard steps out from the group, his eyes are so pale they appear drained of color except for the pupils. He gestures. "And them?"

"Business partners," Lars answers, handing over a sum of money.

The soldier hangs his rifle over his shoulder as he counts the bills. When he finishes, the patrolman scrutinizes each of them with his milky white eyes, stepping closer towards Ronon. "Interesting necklace you have there."

"Yeah."

"How much ya want for it?"

"It'snot for sale."

"Everything's for sale here."

"Not this."

Sheppard and Lars tense up when the solider pulls out a knife, the metal glinting in the dull sunlight. "This is a fine blade, several hundred _cens_ old. It's perfectly balanced, perfectly lethal. I'll trade you for the Wraith necklace."

Ronon straightens to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. "These two teeth belonged to my very first Wraith kill. I'd cut my right hand off before handing it over."

The guard chews on his bottom lip. "I can respect that," he says, moving to let them by.

Sheppard and their escort visibly relax after the exchange. Ronon strokes one of the incisors that dangle from the cord around his neck as they keep going. Dust storms swirl around buildings; a few even look like they were constructed with the proper measuring tools with level foundations and walls. Booming black markets never stick around for very long, a couple cycles at most before they disband or move on. Towns are created overnight, the hordes arriving with needs and desires before a more profitable place is found.

"The iron ore around here supplies most of this solar system. It burns longer and is in great supply. The guy with the rights to the largest hunk of mountain owns the establishment we're going to. He also supplies all the alcohol and pays for the band of crazies we call our military."

"Is he partners with our dealer?" Sheppard asks.

Lars laughs. "No, they hate each other, but they stay out of each other's ways."

* * *

Ronon removes the cloth from over his face, stuffing it in one of his coat pockets. The room inside is smoky; the people of this world never tire of filling their lungs with poison. There's a large ring set up off to the side where two fighters pound their fists into each other as the legions cheer them on. 

"There's a _Gufra_ pit over there if you're into those thrills," Lars points out.

Ronon strains his neck to peer past the circle of people screaming into the black depths. Sheppard walks over for a closer inspection and returns with a disgusted expression. "Looks like dogs on steroids trying to chew each other to bits."

Lars laughs. "If you can bet on it, we do. If we can sell it, we go for the biggest pay off." The dealer stares at the colonel and lowers his voice. "With your looks you could earn a lot for just one night's work, if you know what I mean."

Sheppard's cheeks flush in the low light and Ronon jerks the scumbag away by his animal skin collar. "Don't even think about it."

"That's a compliment, my large friend. Nothing wrong with having desirable assets and believe me, there would be a bidding war."

Ronon glowers but Lars smirks. "Be glad I'm not a slave merchant."

Sheppard reaches for the other end of the trader's jacket for a little of his own manhandling when a group of women descend upon them.

"Oh, ladies, I'd like you to meet Sheppard and Ronon. Do keep them company while I go track down a mutual friend," Lars purrs, winking.

Soft fingertips play with his long dreads while an ankle rubs the inside of his left calf. Ronon drinks in pale skin and long flowing red hair while the woman whispers things in his ear that would make a soldier blush.

Ronon coos back at her. "For how long?"

He laughs at the way her eyes dilate in desire. She responds by slinking the pointed end of her shoe past his knee. It's entertaining but he decides to check out how the colonel is handling twice the fun.

If Sheppard pushes any harder against the back of the bar, he's going to break it. The colonel is one part mesmerized and two parts uncomfortably trapped by a pair of hungry-looking women. A blonde and brunette flank him, hands petting and caressing any part of the man's body not covered by clothing.

Sheppard looks overwhelmed and it amuses Ronon to no end. "You need to go somewhere private?" Ronon jokes.

The colonel shoots him daggers but his present company seems willing to oblige.

"Anywhere you want," the blonde encourages.

"Both of us at once, if you'd like," the other responds, playing with his lapels.

Ronon's ready to burst at Sheppard stuttering over words like McKay, but he has pity for his friend. "We don't have time for this."

He hands each woman a_ tip _and the three of them pry themselves away for other prospects, the red-head clinging to his shoulder. "Maybe later?" she murmurs.

"Maybe," Ronon lies.

The women seek out other meal tickets, their strong perfume lingering in the air. Ronon has needs, but they can't be bought and they run deeper than physical gratification.

If he wants to fuck, he has many to choose from and it won't cost him any money. The wound in his heart still weeps and requires too much healing. He's in no rush to mend something so fresh, even after eight years.

He also knows, despite how willing Sheppard is to accept the attraction of women, he rarely takes the ego boost of such flirtation too far. He'll bask in the glow of being able to play the game, manipulate the situation, but Sheppard doesn't sleep around.

Command is the colonel's mistress. She provides the fire and the desire of being needed, but she's cold when it comes to comfort. Ronon does the guy thing and encourages a few women on the base to take an interest in his CO, but loneliness is the one thing both of them have in common.

"Maybe if we have time after this mission," Sheppard says, but he's not to be taken seriously.

Ronon pats him on the shoulder. "They aren't your type. They're not in need of rescuing."

"Hey!" Sheppard whines indignantly.

They find one of the few empty high-top tables and search for their host in the sea of humanity.

"Scum and villainy, kind of like the Mos Eisley Cantina," Sheppard jokes.

"If I had one of those laser swords I could kick so much ass."

They chat about space pirates to pass the time as each of them case the crowded bar. The colonel drums his fingers a few minutes, a sign that he's about to launch into something heavy.

"What?" Ronon sighs.

"Do you even know what Turesh looks like?"

"I've seen video transmissions and pictures. I'll know."

"As long as you two have never met it'll make our little ruse last longer."

"I won't need much time at all."

Sheppard takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. "You know, we can still turn back."

"No."

"Ronon..." The pilot struggles for the right words. "Who are you really trying to avenge?"

"I told you."

"Really?"

Ronon can feel the heat burn his cheeks. "I thought you understood?"

"I do, all to well."

The background noise becomes a soft hum; Sheppard's words are sharp as daggers.

"You have a home, but it'snot Sateda... You have a family but we don't know about the world you grew up in."

Ronon's jaw aches, his teeth gnashing together.

Sheppard's voice is thick and heavy as if the words themselves do not want to escape. "We can't go back for Elizabeth. We had to leave her behind."

The glass in Ronon's hand shakes between his tense fingers.

"And you think you failed your friends. That if you could've protected them, they might be alive today... I know exactly how you feel. I'd do anything to fix the past, but as you've said, what's done is done."

Ronon's friends are dead; they died the day they were captured. "And if you had a way to fix the future wouldn't you do it? To stop a person from killing more?"

"We have to pick our battles. We're not an intergalactic police force. Who are we to choose who deserves to be punished and who doesn't?"

"We make those choices all the time, Sheppard. In our battles against the Wraith. Against the Replicators. Things that we decide affect other worlds all the time. People live and people die because of us."

The colonel doesn't say a word, he doesn't have to. Ronon bends over, closing the gap between them. "Why did you come here with me?"

"Because I wasn't going to let you do this alone."

The roar of the bar blares in his ears, the chaos around them once again loud and clear.

"Gentlemen."

Lars stands next to them with another drink in his hands and a green cigar between his teeth that clashes oddly with his blue hair. "We have a meeting to attend to."

"Turesh?" Ronon asks, rising to his feet.

"Yeah, he's interested in what you have to say and would like to discuss your toy there," Lars points at the P-90 attached to the colonel's vest.

"I'm sure he does," Sheppard says dryly.

Ronon's heart pounds against his sternum; his muscles are coiled, ready to strike at any movement. This is the time for something to go wrong and he and Sheppard study every face, every shadow as they are escorted towards the back of the bar. There's a hallway hidden in the darkness, blocked by a lone table with five of the biggest thugs playing cards.

Lars nods at the group of hooligans and the thugs allow the three of them into the corridor. Ronon's hand rests on his blaster; the colonel's grips his weapon. The hall leads to a door and a set of stairs.

There's a sublevel to this place and as the trio descends the steps; he realizes they have no idea how big the underground area could be. They lose any tactical advantage, not knowing the layout of the exits or where they are going. The odds are stacking out of their favor and he can feel every muscle tighten.

Sheppard's giving him the 'I don't like this vibe' and he agrees. Their nostrils are assaulted with the harsh fumes of an old furnace and charred remains of an abandoned mine as they enter. Both team members look around at the chiseled walls, wondering how long ago this cave housed the planet's precious ore.

"This gives new meaning to conducting business in the back room," Sheppard says sarcastically.

"Well, killing people out in public, while not frowned upon, wouldn't be good for dealings," Lars laughs.

Ronon trains his blaster on Lars's chest, the floor quaking from countless boots as the room fills with men out of the shadows. Sheppard's P-90 bounces from target to target, but they are on the wrong end of too many barrels.

"You know, it's cool to see the recruits so gung-ho, but it's not nice to point weapons at your possible new bosses," Sheppard says perturbed.

Ronon can barely keep his gun still as rage has his hands shaking and his heart pounding. He counts eight large, armed men blocking any means of escape.

"It's hard not to notice that tattoo on your neck. A Satedan military rank, right?"

He feels the need to pull the trigger, his sight set on the backstabbing trader. But he won't do it, not when there's a slight chance that there's a way out of this. He and Sheppard have gotten out of worse jams.

"You have something against Satedans?" Sheppard asks, his gun aimed at a cluster of chests.

"Not at all, but when Turesh offers me more money to lure you two down here...What can I say?" the trader informs.

"Where is the murderer?" Ronon asks.

"Here. And which piece of Satedan_ dreck_ are you?"

He's heard that voice in his dreams, imagined the low, guttural tone. The circle of armed men parts as Turesh steps out, his cronies flanking each side. The Terinian is bald on both sides of his head except for a solid row of hair straight down his dome. Sheppard's people call the style a 'Mohawk' and it highlights a face filled with metal jewelry in the man's eyebrows, nose and bottom lip.

He doesn't carry a weapon; his shirt stretches taut over his chest and thick, tattooed arms.

"I asked you a question."

"Ronon Dex," he responds proudly.

"And your friend?"

"Colonel Sheppard," John replies, stepping forth without fear.

Ronon beams at his CO's brashness.

"Seems you own an interesting weapon, Colonel. I think I'll take it from you, since we both know you won't be selling me any more. But don't feel bad. I think some of my people can take it apart and find a way to make more."

Sheppard smiles widely. "Don't think so."

Turesh chuckles. "You're outnumbered. Or do sorry Satedan tactics infect their allies, too? You won't shoot me since my people will cut you down where you stand. So I'll take that weapon out of your hands with or without your blood all over it," the Terinian says boldly.

Ronon doesn't understand math like Rodney does but he knows they will not survive a firefight. Too many weapons, too many targets.

"You always were afraid of a real fight," he spits.

"Really?" Turesh raises an eyebrow. "How's that?"

"These are your men? Don't you trust their skills or do you know the truth?" Ronon mocks.

Eight scarred faces harden, sending their leader fiery stares.

Sheppard risks a sideway glance, swallowing.

The cavern fills with Turesh's laugher. "You Satedans are all the same. All words and no results on the field of battle. Too cowardly, too pack minded. Fine, you want to fight with fists?" The butcher nods at his people. "Lower your weapons."

Ronon can fulfill his promise, his oath. He has the shot and longs to take it to avenge all those who fell to this coward's evil deeds, but doesn't. He's just bought him and Sheppard a few seconds.

His chance for revenge slips away while Turesh steps back, his minions closing ranks in front of him. The asshole is going to let his hired muscle fight his battle. "If they fire first, don't leave anything for a grave. If they truly think they can take all of you, tear them limb from limb and retrieve the weapon from their dead hands," the mercenary orders.

Lars scurries after the Terinian, pausing long enough for a final parting shot. "It's too bad. I know where more of your people are in this sector. The Satedans aren't all wiped out. Not all of them are Wraith worshipping scum. I wonder how much you would have paid for such information."

Sheppard's face darkens and Ronon holds back a scream of fury, not allowing his enemy any victory.

If they shoot, they're dead. If they lower their weapons, they're dead but they'll go out fighting, taking out more of their enemy in the process. Ronon seeks his CO's orders... allows Sheppard one final hand in their fate.

The colonel nods and they both drop their guns to the ground as the mercenaries lower their weapons.

Two against eight. Ronon eyes his half of the goon squad while the colonel glares at the other four.

He can't help thinking of Sheppard's talk about superheroes as they engage in one of those comic book battles he's always heard about.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Ronon breaks the first guy's jaw, dislocating the lower hinge sideways. He stays in constant motion—dodging and ducking swings without conscious thought. His hands strike quickly causing his knuckles to pop and swell more with every furious contact.

Another thug looms in front of him, this one already oozing blood from a split lip. Ronon takes him out with another blow to his already damaged face.

This leaves bad guys one, two and three circling like rabid animals. He keeps his eye on each of them and goes low when the trio attacks at once. He sweeps his leg under one set of boots, tripping the guy to his right. The other two jump on top of him, their fists striking his face, shoulders and back.

He protects his middle and torso, letting them waste energy on wild throws. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Sheppard twist and break a man's arm. Ronon needs to take his guys out. The colonel is agile, avoiding heavier and clumsier tactics, but his opponents outweigh him and brute strength can overpower the best defense.

Ronon waits, allowing his enemies to tire, his body enduring six sets of pounding fists. He doesn't feel any pain, adrenaline overwhelming any nerve functions. He allows the fire burning in his belly to reach critical mass and explodes from his protective crouch.

He head butts the middle foe and knees the guy in the groin, taking him out of the equation. The thug who fell for his leg sweep pulls out a knife; the metal slices the air where his face had been seconds before. He grabs the guy's wrist, bends it back and pulls the blade from loose fingers before burying it deeply in the screaming man's belly.

The biggest mercenary reminds him of the Hulk guy from that bad movie. The looming figure spits blood from his mouth and rubs at a spot on his massive square head before pulling out a knife from the folds of his jacket. Ronon is fast, knocking it away and slugging the beefy brute in the stomach. The punch has little effect but that doesn't stop him from delivering two more blows to the guy's face; it feels like hitting concrete.

Hands grab him, pulling back his arms and pinning them high behind his back.

"This is going to be fun," the Hulk laughs, slugging Ronon in the head until his ears ring.

The Hulk's buddy twists Ronon's arms harder until his shoulder blades grind together. To his side he hears the sound of a body thrown into a wall. Ronon watches as a goon pins Sheppard against the stone slate while the other thug punishes the pilot's ribs with brutal blows.

Two of the colonel's bad guys are unconscious on the ground and that makes Ronon smile despite their predicament.

"What are you grinning about?" the Hulk asks, shaking his sore fingers.

Blood drips from Ronon's nose and the warm stickiness has him smiling even more. "Just thinking how unfair things are going to be for you now."

The colonel dodges a blow aimed at his face; the bad guy smashes his hand into the wall instead. It's the opening Sheppard needs and he takes advantage of the situation by jabbing the giant holding him against the wall in the eyes. The thug stumbles off balance only briefly before grabbing the pilot by his tac vest and throwing him to the ground with a thud.

No one beats on Ronon's CO like that and gets away with it.

Ronon lunges forward, straightening out his arms from their knotted pretzel positions. With his limbs free, he elbows the bad guy behind him in the throat then slugs the Hulk in front of him. He spins around and kicks the mercenary clawing at his larynx in the chin, sending him into oblivion.

The Hulk is bruised and bleeding from a gash in his eyebrow. "You're dead," he spits, pulling out a gun.

Ronon should have known that Turesh's men could never keep to a fair fight. "Coward," he growls.

"No, I just know what it takes to win," the thug says.

Ronon is a large warrior but his greatest weapon is speed. He rushes his enemy and they struggle for the weapon. While grappling for the gun he sees Lars sneak in and grab the discarded P-90 from the ground before disappearing back into the shadows.

"Sheppard!" he shouts.

"A little busy!" the colonel growls back.

Ronon succeeds in knocking the weapon out of his opponent's hand. The colonel has less luck as he vies for a knife with his bad guy, unaware that his other foe has struggled to his feet and rushes after the pilot with a huge chunk of rock.

"Sheppard!" Ronon warns.

The Hulk tackles him, but he stays on his feet. Ronon grapples for control, ears straining for the noises of life and death a few feet away.

He recognizes the sound of metal stabbing flesh... hears a startled cry and gurgle of blood. Fury and fear rage through his body and he slams the beast of a man to the ground, twisting his neck in a single snap.

He jumps up, ready for revenge, but his eyes widen at the sight of a thug on the ground with a knife sticking out of his chest. Sheppard wavers unsteadily on his feet, but is very much alive.

All eight bad guys are dead or out for the count.

Ronon staggers over towards the colonel. "Guess you didn't need my help."

"Nope, always enjoy a good ass kicking," the colonel laughs.

Ronon snorts; his friend looks like he took as much of a beating as he gave out. "Lars stole your P90."

The colonel holds his right shoulder, face grimacing in obvious pain. "You think Turesh can make more of them?"

"Yeah, if you give him enough time."

"We can't allow that... can't arm a bunch of people with automatic weapons," Sheppard grunts, cradling his arm.

Ronon's eyes narrow. "You mess up your shoulder?"

"Not sure," Sheppard replies. "Doesn't matter, we need to go after 'em."

The pain lines of Sheppard's face and his slow methodical movements betray his injury. Ronon grips the man's shoulder and the colonel howls in pain, nearly falling over in his haste to get away from the touch.

"It's dislocated."

Sheppard draws a ragged breath. "Think it's broken, actually."

"How'd you do that?"

"Guy wanted to crack my skull open with a hunk of rock. I ducked and he bashed my shoulder instead."

Ronon's going to have to work with the colonel on that in their next sparring session. He thinks quickly, looking around. "I'll go after Lars, get the gun back and grab you on the way out," he explains, already looking for things to tie up the group of unconscious men.

"No! I'm goin' with you," Sheppard protests, but slumps against the wall after getting up too fast and jarring his shoulder.

"You'll slow me down _and_ you can't get into a fight," Ronon rebukes, cutting pieces of rope he's found in the corner and tyeing up the hands of the mercenaries. Once he's secured the last prisoner, he pulls out his blaster. "I'll be quick."

"Ronon."

"The longer we argue the less of a chance I'll find him."

He can tell Sheppard doesn't like it, but the colonel nods reluctantly. "Fine. Keep in contact with me every five minutes."

"Okay." Ronon hesitates, taking in the amount of unconscious prisoners.

The colonel senses his concern, pulling out his Glock with his left hand. "I also have my Beretta and extra clips. Don't worry about the eight dwarves here."

Ronon hesitates. He doesn't like splitting up, especially if Sheppard's hurt, but they can't let someone as ruthless as Turesh get away with advanced weaponry. "You should bind that shoulder."

"Just be careful."

Ronon nods, his heart pounding again with another release of endorphins. "You too."

He heads off after the lying, scamming trader.

He doesn't tell Sheppard that Turesh is fair game if he finds him, knowing deep inside the colonel is well aware of this.

* * *

The underground complex is a looming set of tunnels created in search of ore. Ronon's eyes adjust to the lack of light, but it's still difficult to keep from tripping over the uneven, rocky ground. This area has been carved out recently, greedy desires weakening the very foundation under the town.

The corridor is narrow and he has to stoop over to keep from hitting his head against the freshly chiseled out roof. He follows a set of tracks in the layer of black silt, keeping his blaster out in front of him.

"_What's your progress?"_

"Place is bigger than I thought, but I've got a lead," Ronon answers his com.

"_Don't get lost."_

The tracks are easy to follow, but there are a lot of other tunnels and the place is a giant, dimly lit maze. Something tingles in his craw, tightening the muscles in his gut. He's getting close, he knows it.

"Going on radio silence, Ronon out," he says tapping off his ear piece.

He's not claustrophobic, but it feels good to walk out of the tight tunnel and into another room. There is artificial light coming from the ceiling and it looks like this is an existing warehouse with a freshly dug out hallway. It wouldn't surprise him if Turesh secretly mined a series of hidden rooms like these under other businesses.

The boot treads disappear with the emergence of smooth cement floors. He searches for other exits, noting two other doors at the opposite ends. He slows his pace, sensing danger, eyes darting all over the warehouse.

Sound echoes loudly in caverns and he freezes at the cocking of a rifle.

"You're really stupid, you know that?" Lars says, pointing the P-90 at his chest.

"You were the one who left prints a child could follow," he replies, aiming his blaster as well.

Lars must have paid close attention to the colonel's weapon's demonstration since he holds the gun the correct way. "Maybe I did that on purpose. Ever thought of that?" He smiles, the animal skin jacket accenting the reptilian personality. "Waiting to ambush you was the plan. Now lower your gun."

"No." Ronon notices the perspiration roll down the man's forehead. "I'm going to kill you."

"Don't think so. I haven't got my hands into everything in this town without getting them a little dirty. You won't be the first dead body I've buried around here."

"No. You've left thousands on the battlegrounds. Dealing and double-crossing armies."

"I trade information mainly, like knowing where the other Satedans are in this sector. Turesh is your main arms dealer, but I admit...I do see the profits in something like this fine weapon."

"You're going to take the P-90 without telling him," he says knowingly.

"Enough talking."

Ronon bides his time, never taking his eyes off of the snake. Lars is antsy, sweat beads on his forehead and his left eye twitches. It's the only sign Ronon needs.

Lars pulls the p-90's trigger a split second before Ronon unleashes his blaster. The gun clicks hollowly before the red bolt of energy from the blaster swallows the bar owner whole. His body stiffens, his finger twitching uselessly on the trigger before the gun falls from his hand, his stunned body following right behind.

Ronon shakes his head. "You forgot to turn off the safety."

"He did, but I didn't."

The deep voice ignites the raging flames of anger and Ronon spins around, his finger on the trigger. His reflexes freeze, his mind and body screaming at the mixed signals from his frantic brain.

Turesh steps forward with his arm wrapped tightly around Sheppard's throat, the muzzle of the colonel's Glock buried in the side of his head. His CO is held flush in front of the weapons dealer's body like a shield.

"Oh. Did you forget something?" Turesh laughs, pressing the gun harder against Sheppard's skull.

"Shoot him," the colonel gasps.

Turesh flexes his bicep to cut off the pilot's air. Sheppard sputters, his eyes bulging out a little as his face flushes from the lack of oxygen. "Lower your weapon," Turesh orders, squeezing his arm harder.

The pilot wheezes while Turesh holds him in place, easily overpowering him. Sheppard's eyes glaze over but he fights, sending Ronon a signal to take the shot before he passes out.

"Let him go or die," Ronon growls.

Turesh stands there, basking in the control he wields. "If you shoot me, I'll shoot him. If you screw around then he runs out of air."

_No! No! No! No!_ Ronon's mind screams.

The colonel's body begins to sag in the mercenary's grasp. Every fiber in Ronon's body tells him to take the shot, but he lowers his blaster despite his CO's eyes pleading him not to.

Maybe a couple of years ago he might have obeyed. But not today.

His blaster clatters to the ground.

One of the goons from earlier arrives, aiming another gun in his direction and he knows he's lost any chance at rushing the mercenary.

Turesh grins wildly. "I never thought I'd see the day a Satedan lowered his weapon or left a soldier behind."

The verbal jab is like a dagger to the gut and Ronon bristles, still calculating options.

"Let him go," he demands.

"Sure."

Turesh releases Sheppard and he collapses to the ground, gasping for breath on his hands and knees.

"This is between us," Ronon says, trying to distract Turesh. "Let's handle this one on one."

Turesh cocks his head in concession, glancing at the crony beside him whose pistol is still trained on him. "You're right. No need to involve anyone else."

Ronon expects a bullet to rip open his chest and hopes he'll have enough energy to take out the murderer and give Sheppard a chance to escape. He tenses at the blur of motion but he doesn't register the aim of the gun until it's too late.

Sheppard never had a chance.

Turesh fires at the colonel's temple. The report of the gun deafens his ears and muffles the scream from his lips. The pilot slumps to the ground, blood gushing from the head wound.

Ronon can't hear, can't see—there's nothing but flashes of red and howls of grief and rage. He feels such blind pain that all the swirling colors of emotion darken to nothingness.

His mind is too busy trying to handle the overload to register the pain in the back of his head.

And then there's nothing.

* * *

_A/N:Thank you to everyone for the support. It means a lot. Promise an update tommorrow._


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

It feels like the flames of damnation are licking his skin, melting the layers away from his bones in a slow, boiling torture. Ronon opens bloodshot eyes and gags on the smell of burning metal. He spits to rid the taste of ash from his mouth and the room sways into a cloudy focus. He can't move; his hands are tied behind his back and attached to the bindings of his ankles.

It's clever; the more he fights, the further his arms are pulled backwards and his back spasms as it's pulled into a strained arch. He's alive, trussed up in a smelting room of the mine, a live furnace roaring in front of him. His eyes sting from smoke in the room, his face slick with sweat mixing with the moisture that streams down his face.

He feels nothing but overwhelming fury and grief, his volatile emotions burning along with the fire next to him.

He works on the ropes, abrading the skin in his attempts to get free. It's difficult to breathe and he fights against choking. He closes his watery eyes; the images of Sateda on fire and in ruins flash in his mind.

Gone is the splendor of markets, the golds and bronzes of beautiful buildings and bridges leading to the town square. Gone are the streams he used to go swimming in as a kid or the giant _yumta_ fields he hid within during harvest.

There are craters where the Great Halls once stood, the place where his mates got married and they all got drunk off of Fireale

Nothing's left of the great Satedan military, a force to be feared and honored by their neighbors.

All of his friends are dead except the ones that have become tainted and twisted by the Wraith.

And now he's suffered another terrible loss and he does everything to bury the agony deep down inside.

His wrists bleed from rubbing them on the filthy floor; his joints pop from trying get out of the knotted rope. His head pounds and aches. It's getting harder to draw oxygen and his vision swims from the incineration of the ore so close by.

His mind drifts in the balmy room, wondering if he'll ever stop failing all the time.

"You awake?"

Ronon tries not to think about all the faces stuffed into a building of worship at Doctor Beckett's funeral.

"I know you're not dead yet."

Or the image of Dr Weir dying in bed while he stands by helplessly.

"You really are pathetic," Turesh sneers, kicking him in the back.

Ronon rolls onto to his side to stare up defiantly. "You should have killed me."

"I wanted to, but Lars wanted to get his licks in." Turesh chuckles, turning towards the bar owner who is standing next to him. "I must say, I'm not surprised that a Satedan fell for something like that."

Ronon lets the sharp pieces of silt dig into his palms as he rubs at the ropes.

Lars peers over the murderer's shoulder, still holding onto the P-90 like a prized possession.

Turesh lowers to his haunches, enjoying how he twists the invisible blade. "You know, your friend fought like a wild animal... kicking, punching. Not very effective, but then again, he'd been winged."

Ronon just concentrates on the feeling of the ropes splitting and weakening.

"He didn't scream though. I was impressed. He _did _grunt like an animal after I twisted up that shoulder enough."

Ronon won't say a word, doesn't allow himself to think or feel.

"You know what we do to sick and injured animals, Lars old buddy?" Turesh turns to look at the other man.

"What?"

"We put them down."

Ronon can't block the image of Sheppard's dead body anymore. Nothing can hold back the gun shot or the way the pilot's head jerked and how his blood had stained the ground.

He breaks free from his bonds and launches himself at the man who killed Sheppard right in front of him.

Every fighting technique is gone, his coordination nonexistent. He's all fists and madness.

He pins the mercenary to the ground with his knees even with his ankles still bound together. Turesh doesn't have time to shield his face from the pounding. Blood stains Ronon's knuckles; parts of his fingers burn from being cut on his foe's teeth.

Bone meets flesh, his body quaking from the outpouring of guilt and hatred.

He does it for every fallen comrade. For every Satedan building blown up by the man's bombs.

Ronon pummels the man before him for his friend.

Turesh slams a fist into his jaw to no effect. There's an elbow here, a blow there. It's not until fists slam into each of Ronon's ears at the same time that the Terinian is able to wiggle away.

"Shoot him!" Turesh orders the trader.

Ronon sways, trying to clear the cobwebs, but the room is spinning and he can't get to his feet fast enough. Lars doesn't move, too cowardly to get into the feud.

"I'm going to rip you to shreds when I'm done with this piece of Satedan _dreck_," Turesh spits at the bar owner.

Ronon tries to undo the rope still binding his ankles when he feels a piece wrap around his throat. The big Terinian hisses in his ear, "It was so easy to subdue your buddy."

Turesh tries to throttle him; the rope rubs away skin as it tightens around his larynx. Ronon wrestles with it, his lungs already weak from breathing in the burning fumes of the furnace.

"Poor Satedan, once again unable to defend others."

Ronon helped pull the trigger, helped place the bullet in Sheppard's brain.

"It's too bad I can't shoot your pal twice."

Ronon lashes out blindly behind him and rips out the metal jewelry from Turesh's nose. The rope grows slack and he finishes freeing his ankles as the mercenary roars in pain, blood dripping down his chin. Ronon grabs a handful of the Mohawk, yanking on the hair and sending the Terinian into the wall. The furnace crackles and spits out flames next him, falling embers burning his arm. He slams the mercenary's skull into the stone behind him with a crack.

The thug sways dizzily and Ronon holds him against the wall and pounds away. After several minutes, he pauses to glare at Turesh's bloody face and raises his fist again. "This one is for Sheppard."

He feels an itch... a tingle... and turns around.

Lars has been waiting for this moment to take them both out. The P-90's safety is off and he fires at both of them.

Ronon jumps, dives to the ground and instinctively rolls away. Lars isn't prepared for the powerful kickback of the automatic rifle and several stray bullets hit the furnace. The reaction is instantaneous and the kiln explodes into a fireball.

Heat from the flames bakes into Ronon's back as he gets a shoulder full of shrapnel. He covers his head as the blast shakes the room and chunks of the ceiling begin to fall. He's numb, tempted to just lie there and wait for another explosion or toxins from the burning ore to take him out. Another rumble and a piece of the ceiling falls on him, jarring him out of his stupor.

It takes a few attempts to get back to his feet; his head still aches and the air is heavy with particles. He has to know... has to make sure after all this that Turesh is dead. It won't be worth it... nothing could be, but he won't walk away without knowing.

Most of the area around the furnace is thrashed; rubble is strewn all over the floor and some of the scrap still burns.

Both men are buried under debris and he leans over the mercenary's unmoving body. He reaches out to feel for a pulse and is startled by the hoarse plea a few feet away.

"Help me!"

Lars's legs have a huge chunk of rock covering them; the black marketer's face is covered in blood and he holds his arm at an odd angle. "Please... help me."

Ronon looks up at the ceiling, taking note of the raining debris. "No."

"I'll die if you leave me."

"Don't care."

The fumes are overpowering and it won't be long until the rest of the roof falls in.

"I'll tell you where the others are...I'll tell you how to find more of your people. I know that's why you didn't kill me when you had a chance."

Ronon hesitates, part of him still needing to know, but he can't make himself move towards the backstabber. He ignores the man's plea and is reaching for Turesh's carotid when the murderer's eyes open.

"Still alive," Turesh rasps.

"Not for long," Ronon replies, standing.

He lists to the left, feeling woozy, and knows it's time to go and leave these two to their fate.

"Help me escape, Dex."

Ronon's laughter is swallowed up by a hacking cough.

Turesh tries to move but is trapped under too much rock. "Don't you want to know where the body is?"

Ronon freezes.

"You want your comrade to be left to rot like an animal or take him home to be buried?"

Ronon squeezes his eyes closed.

"What will you tell his family and friends? That you left his corpse on some strange planet? Because you'll never find it without me."

Ronon sees Rodney's anguished expression, Teyla's downcast eyes, Carter's inability to understand why he didn't bring John back.

"I'll find him myself," he grunts over the mental anguish.

"I had one of my men dump him deep in this complex. You know how unstable the mines are under here. If this room goes... so does the rest."

"No, take me! I can find more of your people!" Lars begs as more of the ceiling collapses on him.

Ronon holds onto the wall to steady himself; Turesh's bravado falters as he coughs up blood. He stalks over and begins removing blackened stone and burning trash. He finds his blaster and stuffs it in his holster, then yanks on Turesh's arm, hauling him to his feet.

"You pick a corpse over your people!" Lars bellows as Ronon drags the mercenary away.

"Take me to his body," Ronon orders.

They take barely two steps away from the furnace room before it collapses.

* * *

Ronon isn't gentle with the murderer, dragging him through tunnel after tunnel without saying a word. He ignores every painful grunt, slapping the man's face for further directions. Blood drips from the wound in the back of his shoulder but the floor is coated with the mercenary's and he takes satisfaction in that.

They come to a split in the tunnels and Turesh raises his head. "I want you to let me go. I know a way out from here."

Ronon slams Turesh against an opposite wall. "No."

"Leave me; I'll tell you how to get to his body."

"You take me to him or die right now," Ronon demands, pulling out a knife and pressing it to the man's throat.

"You're going to kill me over some dead buddies from years ago?" Turesh smiles. "How are you going to gain vengeance for a long ago dead planet?"

"I'm not. I'm going to get it for the death of someone else."

He slices the steel across the thug's throat. Turesh gasps, blood spurts out in rivers, his hands unable to staunch the massive wound. The man's body slumps to the ground with the majority of his blood volume soaking the front of his shirt. Ronon curses the murderer in Satedan, turning his back on him.

Turesh gave himself away, his eyes flicking to the tunnel on the right. He follows it down a twisty path, lost in his emotions. His steps are slow and hesitant. The dank hallway opens up to a small room and he freezes at the sight of the pilot's uniform.

Sheppard is face down on the floor, his body carelessly dumped next to other discarded and decayed bodies. Ronon doesn't want to move, his limbs heavy with guilt and sorrow. He forces himself to go towards his commander's body, avoiding the crimson stain on the ground. He rolls the colonel's body over and pushes back the strands of hair sticky with blood away from the clammy forehead.

The pilot's eyes are mercifully closed and Ronon takes a deep breath, wondering what would be the best way to carry him back to Atlantis. Ronon rests his hand on the colonel's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sheppard."

This is his responsibility. His fault.

He swallows back the desire to retch; he's going to suck it up and tough it out. That's what a soldier does and he's not going to desecrate Sheppard's honor by losing it now.

He contemplates a moment before slipping one arm under the colonel's neck and the other under the pilot's long legs. Ronon looks at Sheppard one final time and notices the colonel's temple is _still_ bleeding, a rivulet of crimson running down his ear.

He curses at his own stupidity, for letting grief overcome common sense. Turesh had been too busy staring at him to eat up his reaction to pay attention to his aim. The colonel's skull is still intact.

Ronon's hand shakes at the remote possibility as he examines the head wound. There is a deep, horrible gash that bleeds freely, but there is no bullet hole. He presses his fingers against Sheppard's neck and feels a weak beat underneath.

Sheppard's alive. He wants to shout in triumph but knows his friend is gravely wounded and they're still trapped in a maze of tunnels on a hostile planet.

"Doesn't matter," Ronon says out loud.

He'll find a way. If Sheppard can cheat death again then he's going to get them both off this world alive.

* * *

A/N:

_Thanks guys, you rock!_


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Ronon knows about basic survival from many years on the battlefield. He doesn't have the gentle hand of Teyla or the education of a real doctor but he knows enough to be afraid. Sheppard is unresponsive, even after he rubs his breastbone, copying what he's seen medical people do to wake up patients. Too much time has been wasted. He searches the pilot's tac vest for a bandage and places the heavy pad against the ugly gash on the colonel's temple, wrapping the gauze the best he can around Sheppard's head to keep it in place.

"You're..." He licks his lips in unfamiliarity at offering assurance and hope. "You're going to fine, Sheppard."

His own shoulder throbs and burns from shrapnel, but he doesn't mess with wounds he can't reach.

He pats down the colonel's effects, looking for a gun, but he's been stripped of anything useful except for the meager medical supplies. There's no way to contact Atlantis and the nearest gate is in the middle of town. The easiest thing would be to slump the pilot over his shoulder, but not with the head wound. Ronon's not going to allow Sheppard's skull to bounce around upside down.

He formulates the simplest plan of attack because there's no denying that getting to safety is going to require a fight. Ronon carefully lifts his burden, making sure the colonel's head is nestled near his shoulder and goes back the way he came. It's a challenge to navigate like this and he's forced to walk sideways in the narrow tunnels to accommodate the colonel's body.

Every tendon aches as he strains under his burden, sending fire down his arm, but Ronon has one solitary goal. He comes across Turesh's body and lowers Sheppard to the ground to search for anything useful. His fingers dig through bloody, soiled clothes until they curl around a handgun. He pulls out the colonel's Glock.

Clutching the gun makes him feel sick and pushes back doubt and _what if_'s about leaving Sheppard to go after Lars...about this whole mission. Allowing those thoughts to fester will only get them killed. He stuffs the Glock in his belt and grunts, picking the pilot back up, the nerves raging streaks of lightning across his back.

He follows Turesh's blood trail back towards the furnace room. The tunnel grows darker until there's nothing but pitch blackness ahead. The explosion has collapsed a much larger section of the cavern than he realized.

"Damn it!"

It doesn't matter with or without light he can still backtrack to where they'd entered the underground complex. It's tedious, twisting and adjusting to the corridors in the dark, banging Sheppard's boots against many corners in the process.

He moves as fast as he can, his back towards the wall in order to fit them both. "You're heavier than you look," he grunts at his friend.

He can feel Sheppard's rapid heartbeat under his fingertips, a thumping motivation to keep moving. They trudge on longer, instinct and gut feeling guiding him all the way. Turning to the right, the end of the corridor is lit by something ahead. He searches the ground for a sign that he's headed in the right direction and notices a spot of blood. He bends down and his fingers come away moist. He imagines droplets splattering from Sheppard's head wound as one of Turesh's men went to dump his body after he was shot.

They're closer to the exit now.

It doesn't take long to find the main warehouse where this disaster began. Ronon tenses there are only two bodies from earlier and he doesn't know if any of the remaining goons are still around or if they all fled after the explosion.

He takes a second to look after Sheppard, placing him on the floor and checking the bandage. It's sticky with fresh blood and Ronon grabs another dressing from the colonel's vest and adds another layer. This is the last chance he'll have to attend to the pilot's wound for a while. He can't do anything about the busted shoulder but at least Sheppard's not awake to feel anything.

The colonel looks ghastly in the low lighting, his face pale with blood smeared across his forehead. Ronon holds back guilt and anger, feeling too clumsy to offer much help.

He tries not to think about how easily he'd accepted his CO's fate. A bullet to the head should have meant instant death. "I should've trusted you not to die," he mutters, picking the pilot back up.

He pulls out his blaster and musters all his strength, channeling all his pain and adrenaline into the charge. He takes the steps two at a time, accelerating towards the exit and kicking the door open.

His weapon is hidden under Sheppard legs and three men jump up from playing cards, each of them reaching for a gun.

There's no time for hesitancy he straightens his arms and takes out the group in three quick shots. The noise from the heavily populated bar swallows up the commotion and his feet never stop running. It doesn't take long for some of the horde to notice the crazy man and his injured friend.

Most patrons scatter out of the way, wanting nothing to do with them, but others are suspicious and a few approach him from varied directions. He fires warning shots, causing panic, and the place swarms with people trying to get out of the way.

"Move!" he shouts.

This is a major scene and he curses himself for creating chaos when he only seeks the quickest way out of here. He recognizes two of Turesh's thugs near the bar, sporting bruises from their earlier encounter.

One with a black eye jumps out of his chair. "Hey! Where do you think you're goin'!"

There is no way to engage in a firefight; his movements are compromised carrying the colonel and the prone pilot is a prime target. He thinks quickly, adjusting Sheppard's body and digging into his pocket for a roll of money from a hidden inner lining. He pulls out a bunch of bills and tosses them in the air, allowing them to rain down like confetti.

Greed overcomes fear and many of the patrons converge like wild animals upon the money, helping cover their escape. He tries to use his uninjured shoulder to shove his way through everyone else while trying to protect Sheppard's head from being jostled.

"Outa the way," he growls at anyone in his path.

He can smell fresh air, or as fresh as it's going to get on this world. Sheppard hasn't stirred once during their flight and he tries not to think of things like brain damage. The sky outside is orange with dark purple streaks; there's no darkness to hide under and he's attracted the attention of a few armed men right outside the bar.

"Hey, you! Stop!"

Ronon's just tossed away any bribery leverage and he knows tangling with the corrupt authorities over the trail of bodies he's left behind is not an option. He lowers the colonel to the ground in order to gear up for another fray when the soldiers are intercepted by the attention of three eager women.

His eyes dart around in search of more danger and catch the wave from the attractive redhead who wanted in his pants hours ago. He nods at the woman, thanking her for the diversion and she mouths _you can pay me back later._

The back alley behind the tavern offers cover and he runs behind the next few buildings in an attempt to elude any of Turesh's men that might try to follow. His arms tremble from carrying Sheppard for so long without a break. His injured shoulder is bleeding from the strain, the wetness trickling down his back.

He ignores his exhaustion, legs pumping at full steam while his left arm slowly goes numb. After going several minutes non-stop, he stumbles over a rock, almost dropping his precious load. He has to take a moment to collect himself and ducks into a dark alley, propping the colonel up against the building.

Gasping for breath, he wipes at his forehead, ignoring how badly his shoulder aches. "Gate's not too far, buddy," he tells the colonel.

Sheppard's chest rises and falls at a pace even slower than earlier. Ronon checks his pulse and worries at the weakening beat and the icy feel of his skin.

"You can't die," Ronon hisses.

_His death will be on your head and you'll never be able to look anyone in the eye on Atlantis._

A scream builds up from deep inside and he tries to crush the doubt of the voice in his head. He's going to get the colonel to safety no matter what it takes. Sticking to the back alleys of bars and buildings is the best way to stay hidden, but other people use the same cover for their own dealings.

It takes more effort but he lifts Sheppard's limp body higher to keep his blaster out and in plain sight. Anytime a hooligan even gets close, he flashes the muzzle of his gun and they scatter away like rodents. They're getting nearer to the border patrol that separates the seedier inner sector and the normal square that contains the 'gate.

The wind whips at his face, the chill biting his skin, and he curses the fact that both their jackets were stolen after they were captured. Both his arms shake so badly he fears dropping the colonel, but he's not going to sling him over his back like dead meat. He forces himself to keep going and going despite the fact that his pace slows the more he pushes his body.

He senses people following them, staying just far enough behind that he won't notice. There isn't a way to outrun his silent pursuers and he can't afford to draw any more attention from the roaming militia.

A large store looms ahead only a short distance from the final leg of their escape. He deliberately trips, allowing the pursuing shadows to get closer. Ronon counts to three and goes to his knees, letting gravity pull the colonel's body to the ground.

It only takes seconds to pull out the Glock.

He spins around, firing both weapons at the blurs of bodies that converge on him. He sprays bolts of red and waves of lead at his attackers. There's no place to seek cover so he creates a shield of death, pressing both triggers for all their worth.

Three men drop in front of him and he pivots to the left with the gun and right with the blaster, hitting shoulders, arms, chests. Bullets whiz past his ear while bodies hit the ground in heaps of grunts and groans.

Ronon tracks every moving target, always keeping his bulk in front of the colonel to protect him from any stray bullets. The Glock clicks empty and he drops the pistol to the ground as a freight train plows into him.

His blaster is knocked away in the ruckus and they tumble over and over until a face sneers on top of him. A lucky punch to the jaw rattles his teeth and that's all the time he needs to grab his knife and plunge it deeply into flesh and muscle. Ronon shoves the nameless brute away and scrambles to his feet.

A militia man stands next to Sheppard, his rifle trained at Ronon's head. "You're fast, but not that fast," the soldier warns.

"Get away from him!"

The soldier doesn't budge, his face hidden by a dark scarf and sunglasses. "It would seem I have you at a disadvantage."

"For the moment."

The patrolman snickers. "You are a bullheaded one I give you that." The militia man's weapon doesn't waver, but he nudges Sheppard with his boot.

"You touch him again and I'll rip your throat out," Ronon growls.

The soldier pulls off his shades, revealing pale, milky eyes. "Looks like you've lost your way."

Ronon recognizes the guard from entering this sector and his heart thunders in his chest. "We just want to get to the 'gate."

"Who's we?" The soldier nods at the pilot's unmoving body, never taking his eyes off of Ronon. "He looks dead."

"He's not!"

"Whatever you say, stranger."

The patrolman begins to back away. "Good thing I'm not seeking a fight today. Not that it matters. You and your friend will never make it. Too many people are looking for you."

"Why?"

The patrolman shrugs. "Who cares? I don't even think they know. They can't find their wealthy boss and getting the people who know where he is, means they'll get paid. Then there's the militia we have an interest in keeping Turesh happy," the guard says, turning on his heel to leave.

"Wait!" Ronon shouts, his mind reeling, not believing the words that are about to come out of his mouth.

His head screams obscenities for seeking out help, but he needs assistance. All he has is his blaster and his injuries are zapping his energy. He'll carry Sheppard no matter how far, but the odds of eluding everyone that wants them dead are too high. "Can you show us a way around them?"

"I don't think so. I never liked Lars or Turesh but their money was good."

Ronon walks over and kneels in front of the colonel, his anger and guilt tearing at his gut. He places his ear to the pilot's chest to detect his breathing and listen to his rapid heart. Sheppard is deteriorating too fast his pallor is ashen and sickly looking.

"I'll trade you my necklace." He looks up at the guard with steely eyes. "Just help me get him to the gate."

The guard pulls down his scarf, awestruck. "The Wraith necklace?"

"Yes," Ronon says between gritted teeth.

"I can get _you _there but I don't think----"

"The necklace for both or us, or there's no deal."

The militia man nods his head. "Fine, let me get my _defenka;_ we'll let the beast carry him."

Ronon's instinct tells him to slay the man and take his chances doing this solo, but this isn't about his welfare.

He goes over to one of the dead bodies and strips the corpse of its jacket. The _defenka_'s feet crunch on the soil as the soldier guides it over while he drapes the coat around his CO to try to preserve warmth.

He doesn't want to use the beast, but his bad shoulder can't hold up the colonel's dead weight for very much longer and he can serve Sheppard better by keeping his hands free. He lifts up the colonel with great care and lays him over the animal in the most comfortable position. The patrolman throws a blanket over the pilot but Ronon grabs the wool out of his hands to do it himself. The guard adjusts the saddle bags around the beast to conceal the colonel with the rest of the supplies.

"You got a scarf?"

"Yeah," Ronon says, pulling the bandanna around his face.

He walks over and strips another jacket from the dead to blend in with the rest of the planet. He doesn't holster his blaster, follows right behind the soldier he's just hired. Somehow he feels tainted, bargaining in a system that fosters the death and power cycle of this place.

There's no need to ask the patrolman for his name he doesn't want it, his thoughts only on getting the hell away. He splits his focus between his surroundings, the militia man, and Sheppard. His guide nods at the right people, brandishes his weapon at others and does a good job avoiding trouble.

The 'gate looms in the distance with Ronon on one side of the pack animal and the patrolman on the other. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he can't ignore. The dread becomes well founded when five men rush over to block the exit.

Ronon aims his blaster, stepping in front of the _defenka _to protect his defenseless CO; the angry group of henchmen draws their weapons at the same time.

"Turesh is dead! Go home," Ronon orders.

The thugs murmur among each other.

"There is no profit here; just walk away with your lives."

"You kill him?" one of the goons asks.

"Yes. His blood is all over my shirt. He and Lars are dead, along with anyone that's gotten in the way." Ronon pulls out a knife with his other hand, looking a little deranged, sporting both weapons. "I'll die fighting my way through every last one of you."

Some of the goons look doubtful while others rub sore and injured areas.

"Walk away." Ronon steps closer. "I do not fear dying today."

Slowly the throng disperses, clearing a path towards the ring. Ronon watches closely, making sure the men are far enough away before sliding his knife back into place. He looks over at the patrolman and rips the Wraith necklace away from his throat and hands it over to him.

He removes the blanket, with as much gentleness as possible he lifts Sheppard up and carries him towards the 'gate. Ronon doesn't look back, doesn't waste another precious second before dialing the Alpha site. He carries his burden to the safe point before dialing Atlantis.

"This is Ronon- I need a medical team to the 'gate room. Sheppard's in bad shape." Swallowing dread, he knows the questions that he's about to face and carries his friend across the horizon, hoping it's not too late.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you guys for your enthusiasm, it's a writer's wonderful reward._


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

The Gate room swarms with people, all the voices, hustling footsteps, and alarms blurring into chaos. He deposits Sheppard on an awaiting gurney while Dr. Keller runs trained fingers over the colonel's unmoving form; her lips move but he doesn't hear her words. 

"He was shot in the head," Ronon says tersely, cutting her off.

McKay's non-stop badgering in the background ends abruptly and Ronon turns away from panicked blue eyes. He brushes away Teyla's hand from his shoulder; he doesn't deserve her comfort or pity. Colonel Carter stands before him, awaiting answers to questions he's not ready to address.

Lorne runs in, taking a second to watch the colonel's gurney rush by before hurrying over, out of breath. "What the hell happened?"

Ronon ignores them all and begins following the medical personnel, rubbing at the tattoo on his forearm until his nails dig into the skin.

* * *

He just stands there, close enough to listen to things he doesn't quite understand, but verifies with his eyes that Sheppard is still alive. 

"BP's 80 over 50, pulse is thready at 130," a nurse announces.

"Pupils are sluggish and uneven," Keller says, peeling back the colonel's lids and flashing her penlight. "Hang a unit of the colonel's blood type, run IV fluids, 200 ml of mannitol and get the scanner ready for a head series."

"Doctor?"

Keller turns and notices the black and blue bruises that mottle the colonel's shoulder after another nurse finishes cutting away his uniform and t-shirt. "After his head scans, get some done of his shoulder, neck and chest," she orders, palpating the area.

He doesn't have to understand the jargon after witnessing all the numbers and noises from the machines or how fast the other medical people scurry around. He can tell by the tone of their voices how serious things are.

They finish cutting away Sheppard's clothes, pull off his boots and attach wires, tubes and other things to keep him alive. After such a flurry of activity, his friend is gone, leaving Ronon to brood and berate himself for everything that's happened.

* * *

After the third nurse attempts to take a set of vitals, he shoves the instrument tray away, startling the woman. No one comes nears him again; they all stand back with questions he won't answer. 

McKay's the worst. He paces, fidgets and talks way too loudly. "I knew this was going to end badly. I told Sheppard not to go off and play cowboy!"

Seven years on the run, Ronon barely spoke to people. It was better to stay away and keep his distance. He knows that there's nothing to say that will make this right. He waits as long as necessary and grabs a chair to sit near the room where Dr. Keller takes pictures of the colonel's brain.

His whole life has been about protecting others and failing miserably. He wasn't there when Kanesh was gutted. Sateda fell to the Wraith, no matter how hard they all fought. Melena died while caring for others and his friends were killed and brainwashed by the enemy.

Teyla hovers nearby and he looks up at her anxious face, talking for the first time in hours. "I failed to protect him."

"John's strong."

"You should always take the bullet meant for your commanding officer."

"Rono--"

"What does the Doc say?"

"He is in shock and they are trying to stabilize his vitals. They are monitoring him closely."

"There was so much blood. I saw---I thought----"

Teyla places her hands on each side of his face. "Head wounds bleed a lot, Ronon. I'm sure it looked like---"

"It doesn't matter! The first thing I should've done when I woke up was demand to see him and check for myself!"

"Tell me what happened. Stop letting it eat you up inside," she says, taking a seat next to him.

* * *

"Are you going to let me treat you or should I just sedate you?" 

Ronon looks over at Keller; her eyes are tired and her shoulders sag, but he knows better than to fight anymore.

"Is he sick like Dr. Weir?"

"No, not quite." Keller pulls up a chair next to his and sits down. "Dr. Weir suffered from massive head trauma causing her brain to swell. We had to relieve the pressure by cutting out a piece of her skull."

"And Sheppard?" he asks, looking hopeful.

"There is bleeding between the skull and his brain that we call a subdural hematoma. The bullet didn't penetrate anything; it looks like it skipped across his head."

Keller looks at him in sympathy. "I'm sure it looked awful and that you----"

"Is he going to be all right?"

She sighs deeply. "The ruptured vessel is a small bleed that I think will resolve itself with proper medication. We'll watch it closely and, if it doesn't right itself, then I'll have to operate, but I'm hopeful it won't come to that."

"If the medicine works... he'll be fine?"

"If it works then it will take some time to get over the trauma. Worse case. We're looking at neurological damage. Best case. It'll be like the worst concussion he's ever suffered and we still have to be worried about things like seizures. He also broke his collarbone and fractured his scapula."

Keller runs a hand through her hair. "Now can I examine you?"

He doesn't want her to, but he doesn't say no.

His fingers go towards his throat but the necklace is no longer there. It's odd, after all this time, not to be able to touch such a significant reminder. Ronon wakes up to another vitals check; there are many of them, three times an hour.

"No change," the nurse says.

As if that's a good thing. Ronon searches for anything that the monitors might not have picked up on. The colonel lays motionless, his shoulder immobilized with his arm inside a sling. There are all kinds of sticky pads attached to his forehead where stark white bandages don't cover. Tubes snake out from his veins and under the sheets while a BP cuff inflates every few seconds.

Teyla comes behind the curtain of the ICU. There is only supposed to be one person here at a time, except he won't leave so that rule has to be broken. She fixes some of the pilot's pesky locks that stick up even crazier than usual around the gauze.

"They had to shave some of his hair. He's going to be pissed," he says.

"It will grow back quickly I'm sure."

"I screwed up."

"You didn't know what was going to happen. You faced many hostile enemies and overcame great odds to get the colonel home."

Ronon scratches at the design over most of his forearm, adding to the marks already there. "I'm not talking about what happened with Turesh."

Teyla bends over Sheppard's bed and strokes his arm; her hand lingers on his wrist and gives it a squeeze. She hovers a moment longer before turning around to face him. Without a word she walks over and wraps her arms around Ronon's neck, hugging him with compassion before walking away.

* * *

The gym is off limits with the muscle damage to his shoulder. Ronon let Keller pull out the shrapnel, stitch him up and stick an IV in him but he won't wear a sling. He slept after exhaustion seduced his eyes closed and his body surrendered to the mattress in his quarters.

It had been Carter's orders and Keller's insistence that he leave the ICU or he would be banned. Normally he hated the whole waiting game; the bedside vigil routine was never his thing. His presence couldn't help the person to wake up, but this time it was different.

He'd been strumming Sheppard's guitar quietly, getting used to fewer strings and holding it sideways across his lap. Keller had frowned at him when he first brought it in, but he used only his fingers and the soft sounds were not any louder than that damn constant beeping of some of the equipment.

"That's...otta...tune," Sheppard's raspy voice draws his attention.

He nearly drops the guitar. "Um...," his words stumble. "Let me... let me get the doc."

It's an hour later when he's allowed back over, after more tests and an additional exam. He never knew how tense he'd been until his vertebrae pop and his back feels less stiff.

Teyla beats McKay for the first, brief visit. The scientist stares at the floor most of the time waiting and that suits him just fine. After ten minutes, Teyla returns and the twitchy man rushes over, his voice carrying loudly until Keller hushes him.

Colonel Carter emerges last; the fine lines of her face are less pronounced than earlier. "He's very out of it which is to be expected."

Ronon clenches his jaw.

"John asked about you."

He steps closer to the curtain but hesitates, not sure if he can face his commanding officer after everything.

Carter seems to sense his self doubt. "You should go see him even if it's to reassure him you're okay."

Ronon snorts. That's such a Sheppard trait and he won't act like a selfish bastard anymore and enters the ICU area. The colonel looks like crap, with dark shadows under his eyes that only accent how pale his complexion is. His eyes are squeezed closed, the low light of the curtained area even dimmer than it had been before. The pilot's hand is intertwined with the sheets, fingers curling around the fabric in pain.

"Hey," Ronon says, since he can't think of anything else.

The wrinkles around Sheppard's face doubles at the noise and Ronon steps closer to the bed so he can speak even quieter.

The colonel sucks in a deep breath, turning his head in obvious discomfort, his face blanching even whiter at the movement. "Hey," he croaks.

Ronon shifts his feet and crouches down so he's at eye level. He wets his lips, trying to think of the right thing.

"Youuu...okky?" Sheppard slurs.

The question shouldn't surprise him. "I'm fine," he responds.

Talking doesn't seem to be part of the pilot's agenda as he groans weakly, unable to adjust himself with the busted shoulder impeding his movement. Ronon's on the ball. He grabs the kidney tray sitting on the table and thrusts it under the colonel's chin while helping him sit up enough to be sick without choking.

The place swarms with white uniforms, people's shoes clattering on the linoleum floor. Ronon is shoved aside while medication is administered and the violent retching subsides. He steps away while the pilot's gown is changed but remains tucked away in the corner.

The other physician on duty tries to usher him out but he has made a decision and plans on adhering to it, no matter what.

* * *

The next two days Sheppard stays heavily medicated. The few times he's coherent, any outside stimuli is overwhelming. Ronon makes sure the lights stay off; the dim setting just isn't good enough and people whisper now in fear of being manhandled out of the private area.

He checks the clock to make sure the nurses give the pilot his meds exactly on time.

And there are many. Anti-emetics, anti-seizure meds, pain meds and syringes filled with things that keep the inter-cranial pressure down. He knows all this because he's made the nurses explain every one of them.

He even understands which numbers are good or bad on each machine. He becomes a royal pain in the ass according to McKay and none of it matters.

The dark discolorations around the colonel's eyes are bluer with tinges of red. It looks like someone's punched him in the face one too many times, but it's just another sign of the head injury.

The pilot wakes up confused most of the time and he has the routine memorized. "Go back to sleep, Sheppard. You hurt your head. Everyone's fine."

Sheppard still doesn't talk and tries to curl up on his side to endure the pain in privacy, but it's impossible with the immobilizer. The pilot suffers from double vision and all he can do is sleep because any time he's semi-conscious his stomach rebels.

On day three most of the electrodes are removed from the colonel's forehead and the constant neuro checks are reduced to just twice a day. The colonel gets the date wrong by a few days and sometimes he thinks he's somewhere else, but he groans answers that have the staff satisfied.

Ronon spends time re-stringing the colonel's guitar from scratch and after that's done he tries to think of a way to re-sand the outside and restore the paint.

"Does the F string... still sound flat?"

Ronon looks over surprised. "Don't know which one that is but they're all fixed now."

"Good...I could never...get it right."

"Do you still see two of everything?"

Sheppard turns his head as if it weighs a ton. "Not any more," he says, breathing deeply on his oxygen. "How… how long… have… I?"

"Four days. You've slept for most of it."

"Doesn't feel like... it."

"You should go back to sleep."

"What... happened?"

Ronon furrows his brow. "Told you... You were injured and..."

"With... Turesh."

"He's dead."

Sheppard can't keep his eyes open any more and Ronon thinks he's fallen asleep again.

"You got justice... for your people," the colonel mumbles before dozing off.

"Didn't kill him for them," Ronon replies.

* * *

He swirls the brush over the blue streak of color and sends the top bristles into the smaller blob of green, mixing the two into the correct blend. He adds layers to the bottom of the canvas, not satisfied with the tone—it's too dark. Ronon has spent a lot of time in his quarters, throwing himself into this project. He hasn't been off world for almost two weeks and running, training and sparring hasn't been able to occupy his time. 

It's been years since he's held a brush; it feels foreign, but his fingers remember the grip. His eye can still see color schemes and spatial distance. It's all in the stroke, the angle of the bristles and the thickness of the coatings. The shading is vital; it captures the fury of emotion, the heat of the moment.

He stands back, scrutinizing the highlight, when his door chimes. Growling at the interruption, he turns the easel around and lays down his brush, rubbing stained fingers over his shirt.

"Yeah."

Sheppard walks in, carrying his guitar in his left hand, and looks around uncomfortably. "Since I'm still off duty for a while, I thought I'd stop by. See if you wanted a lesson or two."

Ronon raises an eyebrow. "I think I can out play you."

"What else is new?" the colonel grumbles.

Sheppard sets the instrument down, eying his clothes. "Doesn't paint belong on paper or something?'

"It's messy."

"I can see that."

"Should you be here?"

"I'm not going to keel over. I've been walking for a long time."

"In a straight line?"

"That was only the first day after I was released. You get shot in the head and see how good your balance is."

Ronon grinds his molars together, his eyes twitch and he turns his back just as Sheppard's expression registers the folly of his words.

"Look. I'm sorry... I didn't mean---

"It's fine," Ronon grunts, staring off into space.

The colonel sighs and walks around to face him, the bandage across his forehead a constant reminder of what happened. "You don't... I mean come on...Crap happens. Turesh got the jump on me and I got the short end of the stick. Missions go bad, you should know that."

"I asked you to go."

Sheppard's face flashes in anger. "I can make decisions on my own, Big Guy. No one forces me. I knew what I was getting into."

"You came out of loyalty."

"Yeah."

"Loyalty I used to get vengeance." Ronon doesn't look him in the eye. "For years I've fought for my people, for my world. Battle after battle, hundreds of Wraith corpses without a victory in sight. Everyone I've ever known is dead.

"The only thing that's kept me going is knowing that I'll kill as many of them as possible. Until I found my old squad. I felt like I found something more. A part of the past when there was more to living than just hunting Wraith."

Sheppard takes a seat in a chair, fumbling with the cumbersome immobilizer. "I can't pretend to know what you went through, but no one would blame you for seeking out a connection to your old life."

"But it wasn't real. You knew that...you knew that going out with my friends wouldn't bring anything back. Wouldn't make me feel whole again."

The colonel doesn't say a word.

"You almost died because I was searching for a way to make someone pay."

"Ronon."

"No! I never saw what was right in front of me. That I have a new home to defend... New people to protect. There isn't anything to search for that I don't have here."

There. He's said it out loud. He's cut the strings to his past, allowed them to scatter with the rest of the dust on Sateda.

Sheppard looks surprised by his sudden revelation, nodding to himself. "Sometimes we can't see the forest for the trees."

"Another saying?"

"Yeah. One thing I've learned over the last couple years is that you can waste the future trying to make up for past mistakes. Sometimes you just need to live your life one day at a time."

Ronon nods, his eyes resting on the guitar. "You were really gonna try to teach me to play one handed?"

Sheppard taps the end of the neck. "Guess it wasn't my best excuse. What about you? Done hiding in here?"

"Almost," Ronon says, grabbing his brush. He looks at the colonel and snorts at his pathetic attempts to sneak a peek without asking. "I haven't painted in a long time."

Sheppard looks like an eager child, making Ronon sigh. "Fine, take a look," he says, stepping back in anticipation.

"Whoa...it's… it's beautiful," Sheppard says in awe.

"Not sure if I got the north spire right and the water...I can't remember...was it that green?" Ronon looks over, knowing how much time the colonel has spent out on the piers.

"It's perfect...even the waves. I think that was Elizabeth's favorite view."

"I wanted to capture the way her eyes looked when she was out there," he admits softly before clearing his throat.

"You did." Sheppard squints. "But my hair isn't that spiky."

"Yes, it is."

"Is this from any particular battle?"

"No, it's just flashes of stuff."

"Explains the hive ship explosion in the sky... That's a hive ship, right?"

"Yes," Ronon growls.

"And you have the largest pile of Wraith bodies I see."

"Of course."

"Teyla has the second largest amount," the colonel says in disappointment.

"You're controlling the drones, too."

"Cool," Sheppard beams. "Not sure if Rodney can fire a P-90 and hold on to his PDA like that."

Ronon glares.

"But he's done it before I'm sure," the pilot adds hastily.

"I wanted to preserve what we've been doing here; show people all the important stuff."

"New memories."

"A new future," Ronon adds.

Another silence settles between them but all the strange awkwardness of days ago is gone. Ronon grabs the guitar. "Let me show you how to really play this thing."

"You know my head's starting to-----" Sheppard laughs. "Okay, fine...always trying to twist the whole master and student thing on me."

Ronon grins. The colonel will always have things to teach him; he never doubts that and he vows to always return the favor.

He wouldn't be who he was today without Sheppard and he pats his friend enthusiastically on his good shoulder. "Like Superman and Batman."

Ronon doesn't tell him who is who but instead begins strumming the instrument, thinking how to paint that image for later.

_Fini-_

* * *

_A/N:_

_I wanted to thank everyone for their wonderful support of this story. To think it came from one little scene in my head then "Reunion" aired and gave me the springboard to write this. Another big thanks to Beth and Mandy! You gals rock!_


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